


Guts

by metrophobic



Category: South Park
Genre: Dark Humor, Dick Touching, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, they are 16
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-20 05:32:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13710885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metrophobic/pseuds/metrophobic
Summary: It's the Creative Writing unit in AP English, and Cartman has a trainwreck of a story to read. Clyde is triggered. Kenny feels bad for him.





	Guts

When you’re sixteen years old, the whole world is your oyster, and the pearl of the oyster is you. Everyone has feelings. Everyone thinks everyone else actually gives a shit about those feelings. “Write what you know” was never supposed to mean “write only about yourself”, for the love of God.

Kenny knows this more than anyone. He could have easily waxed poetic about getting torn apart by wild animals, or set on fire, or impaled. He could have bemoaned the fate of remembering each and every time, _feeling_ each and every time, waking up in his bed the next morning like nothing ever happened. But he knows better.

Nobody else ever knows better.

“All right, class,” their AP English teacher, Ms. Fukstane, calls out the next name on the list. It’s been the Creative Writing unit for the past two weeks and everyone has to read in front of the class. “Eric, you’re up.” Everyone looks at each other in mingled boredom and annoyance. Dear god, are they really only on the C’s now? In his own little world that no one else can hope (or desire) to touch, Eric Cartman’s _always_ the hero, and everyone else the villain. This has been the marker of his existence ever since they were in preschool.

He’s beaming once he’s made it to the head of the classroom, small stack of printed papers in hand.

“Thank you, everyone,” he says excitedly, though no one’s applauding. “Thank you.” He clears his throat, shuffles the pages in his hand, and puts on a great show of modesty. “This one came straight from my heart. I call it--” and there he pauses for dramatic effect, “ _Pearl Diving.”_

“Inhale!” he barks out, dramatically staring down the audience. “Take in as much air as you can. This story should last as long as you can hold your breath… and then just a little bit longer.” 

Everyone exchanges a look with his or her neighbour. No one actually breathes in. Kenny yawns, idly doodling on his notebook.

“A friend of mine, when he was thirteen years old--” Cartman continues, and then he actually _winks_ \-- at Kenny. At least, that’s what it seems like from Kenny’s perspective, but maybe everyone else thought he winked at them, too. “--he heard about ‘pegging.’ This is when a guy gets banged up the butt with a dildo.”

Kenny snorts aloud. Behind him, he can hear Clyde Donovan and a couple other boys tittering with all the delight of pubescent boys, even though they’ve long-since passed that point.

“ _What?”_ That’s from the girl on Kenny’s left-- Wendy Testaburger. Cartman doesn’t even miss a beat; on and on he goes, describing in great detail the purchase of a carrot and what this fictional “friend” proceeds to do with it without his parents knowing-- until that fateful day when his dirty laundry disappears, the carrot along with it. How the kid’s parents never confront him. A filthy little secret that everyone knows about, and no one wants to acknowledge. It is for the better.

Kenny cracks up. He can’t help it. So do a lot of the boys in the class-- including and especially Clyde. But they aren’t laughing the way Kenny is laughing. Clyde smuggled an issue of _Swank_ into school last week and proudly passed it around to all his friends at lunch. The centerfold depicted two mature women in the throes of passion. One of them was Liane Cartman. She was the more attractive one, sporting pearls and a rather sizeable strap-on. Strangely enough, Eric didn’t seem fazed at all. In fact, he didn’t even acknowledge it.

Some are naive enough to think that means Eric Cartman has finally grown up, that he’s either come to terms with his mother’s alternative means of income or that it’s just that much more difficult to get under his skin.

Kenny knows better.

“People in France have a phrase: ‘spirit of the stairway’,” Eric says matter-of-factly, and then pronounces flawlessly, batting his lashes at the audience: “ _Esprit de l’escalier._ ”

Wendy’s hand goes up. “ _Excuse me_ ,” she interjects sharply.

“Miss Testaburger,” says Ms. Fukstane, “don’t interrupt. This is an open workshop. You’ll have your turn to speak after Eric is finished reading.”

“Yes, _Miss Testaburger_ ,” Eric echoes, gazing at her in an impressive show of mingled surprise and hurt that Kenny’s sure nobody actually buys. “Can-- can I continue, please?”

“But he didn’t write this!” protests Wendy.

“Wendy,” Ms. Fukstane says firmly, “if you don’t cease these disruptions then you will be sent to the office.”

Wendy crosses her arms, scowling, but she doesn’t say anything else.

“Say you’re at a party and someone insults you,” Eric reads, his voice somber. “You have to say something. So under pressure, with everybody watching, you say… something _lame._ ” His voice drops to a stage-whisper on the word ‘lame’. “But the moment you leave the party-- as you start down that stairway, then-- _magic._ ” It’s punctuated with another stage-whisper. “You come up with the perfect thing you should’ve said. The perfect crippling put-down! That’s the spirit of the stairway.”

He peers over the edge of the paper then, at his audience, the story held to his eye line. Like he’s trying to be mysterious, edgy. “The trouble is,” Eric continues, “even the French don’t have a phrase for the stupid things you actually do say under pressure. Those stupid, desperate things you actually think or do.

“Some deeds are too low to even get a name.

“Too low to even get talked about.”

On and on, Eric reads-- and it’s pretty clever if not stupid offensive: stuff about the Navy, and the Middle East, and how they apparently jack off over there. Nearly everyone squirms when Eric launches off into a graphic description of sounding, but Kenny doesn’t. Nearly all the boys clamp their legs together and the girls whine and cover their ears when Eric segues into a poor boy’s adventure in urethral self-stimulation gone wrong-- but Kenny doesn’t, and Wendy doesn’t. In spite of all this, Eric has gained the classroom’s rapt attention like he’s pouring out some kind of extraordinary verbal ambrosia, a double-decker sandwich of profound allegory layered with rich existential metaphors. It’s the perfect trainwreck of a story, and they’re all on that train.

Kenny really has to hand it to him. It’s true; this _is_ way too well-written and way, _way_ too overtly sexual to be something that Eric Cartman would come up with. Yet he’s always held this deranged level of intelligence that constantly bowls everyone over, which is probably how he made it into this course in the first place. Kenny wouldn’t put it past him to have come up with this on his own, given the level of vulgar, gory detail and racial epithets scattered throughout the story.

There was that novel they all wrote together in fourth grade, after all.

“What got _me_ in trouble,” Eric reads on, “I called it…” and it’s here he pauses for dramatic effect again, dropping in the story’s title: “Pearl Diving.”

Wendy, who’s been silent since her last outburst, her face an interesting palette of emotion, finally rises to her feet. “I’m not listening to this any longer!” she interrupts, again. Half the class groans in dismay.

“You’re ruining the story!” Clyde yells.

“Yeah!” cries Butters.

Wendy points an accusing finger at Eric. “ _You_ didn’t write this, Cartman! It’s by Chuck Palahniuk! All you did was change the title! Why aren’t you stopping him, Ms. Fukstane?!”

“That’s enough, Miss Testaburger,” Ms. Fukstane scolds her. “I already warned you once.”

“Does _nobody else_ recognize this? Why am I even _in_ this class?!”

“Office,” Ms. Fukstane says, pulling out her pad and writing up a slip, “ _Now._ ”

Without another word, Wendy collects her things and storms out. She’s pretty hot when she gets all fired up and angry. Not even Stan Marsh, who’s long since gone gay for his best friend, could have tamed her. Kenny briefly ponders the idea of trying it out for himself. Maybe after this class is over.

Eric reads on, poker-faced, about the incredible practice of sitting on the pool filter and masturbating. How it’s like getting your butt eaten out. How it’s incredibly fucking awesome. Kenny gets a little bit of chub just thinking about it.

And then things take a very, _very_ dark turn.

“It’s seeing that vitamin pill,” Eric’s voice has lowered to a whisper, “that saves my life.”

A couple of girls shriek in horror. Someone next to Kenny throws up.

“Those stories about how animals caught in a trap will chew off their leg.” Eric laughs dryly. Kenny briefly wonders if he’s rehearsed all this. “Well, any coyote would tell you: a couple bites beats the Hell out of being _dead_.”

Clyde isn’t giggling like a 12-year-old anymore.

“It’s not something you want to tell a girl on the first date. Not if you expect a kiss goodnight.”

There’s a few more screams of terror. Red bursts into tears.

“If I told you how it tasted, you would never, ever again eat calamari.”

Some of the kids laugh nervously, and Kenny surmises that this must be the most disturbing story they’ve all heard since _The Tale of Scrotie McBoogerballs_. He’s not quite certain he’s heard anything quite so fucked up, either, though he’s unfazed all the same. When you’re disemboweled on a regular basis, you kind of get desensitized to these things. But-- fuck.

Clyde.

He can’t even bring himself to look at him.

“People at dinner parties get all pissed off when I don’t eat the pot roast they cooked,” Eric says gravely, pretending to wipe away a tear. “Pot roast kills me.” His voice wavers a little. “Baked ham…”

Three more kids throw up-- two boys and a girl. The classroom reeks of vomit. The girls are all covering their ears. Two of them are sobbing uncontrollably.

The fact that Wendy apparently _recognized_ this as something she _read_ before is suddenly, inexplicably _hot._ Kenny kind of gets a chubby again. Just half of one, though, because this is some pretty sick shit.

And Eric is stone-faced as he finally, mercifully, approaches the story’s end. “. . . Even then my folks never mentioned it again.” A pause. “Ever.”

Another pause.

“ _That_ is _our_ invisible carrot.”

He turns the whole disgusting mess of a story over, as if cleansing it from his mind.

“ _You_ ,” he says, staring down the audience, at a fixed point just behind Kenny. Oh, sweet fucking Christ. Kenny knows without looking _exactly_ who Cartman’s addressing. His stomach churns with guilt. “Now you can take a good, deep breath.”

Time seems to have stopped. Finally, resolutely, Eric whispers, “I still have not.”

There’s a moment of tense, uneasy silence. Even the girls have stopped crying. No one’s laughing anymore.

Slowly, Butters begins to clap. And then Red.

And then everyone else.

Well, _almost_ everyone else.

“ _Wow_ ,” says their teacher, hand held over her mouth in amazement. Then she’s clapping too, the sound ringing out through the air. “Wow!” This just spurs the class to applaud even louder, a few of them _whooping_.

“Thank you,” Eric says, hands behind his back, grinning like a fucking Boy Scout. “Thank you.”

“So,” says Ms. Fukstane. “Who’d like to comment first? What about _Pearl Diving_ worked for you-- Clyde?”

Kenny feels complicit in this whole thing somehow, even though he’s never read _Pearl Diving_ \--or whatever it’s _really_ supposed to be called--before. He forces himself to turn around, just barely. Clyde is white as a sheet, both of his fists pressed to his mouth, eyes practically bugging out of his head. It’s a miracle he’s even still conscious.

“I…” it’s barely above a whisper, “I have to… go to the bathroom…”

“But _Clyde_ ,” Eric protests with overdone dismay, “we’re critiquing my story now! You can’t just get up and leave!”

He actually sounds like he’s starting to hyperventilate. “I have to-- go-- _please--_ ”

“Maybe you better let him go,” Kenny says, willing himself not to glare daggers at Eric. Their teacher sighs and writes up another slip.

“Fine,” she says, but Clyde doesn’t take it; in his frantic effort to bolt from the room, he nearly knocks over his desk.

Kenny spends the remainder of their class time mostly thinking about the possibility of getting Wendy Testaburger to peg him, but he also finds himself absently wondering about Clyde, because he never returns.

The bell rings nearly thirty minutes later.

Kenny’s not sure what compels him to go check the boys’ room-- it’s more likely that Clyde doubled back to the nurse instead. But the bathroom door’s locked when he gets there. A few other boys are gathered around the door, looking rather pissed off. Strangely, he’s reminded of when Butters used to throw tantrums and then lock himself in one of the bathrooms when they were kids. _Double wow._

He pushes past the little crowd and taps on the door. “Clyde?” 

There’s a loud whimper in response. Then, “go away.”

“Do you wanna, I dunno, talk about it?” Kenny’s not sure why he suddenly wants to play therapist to this kid. He feels wretchedly responsible somehow, and cannot explain it, even to himself. It must have something to do with wanting Wendy Testaburger to fuck him in the ass just because she’s heard Cartman’s story before.

“ _No!”_

“Come on, dude,” Kenny urges again. “You can’t just sit in here and cry all day. Someone’ll just call the janitor.”

“I’m not _crying_ ,” Clyde argues, but then he’s unlocking the door. When he doesn’t actually _leave_ , Kenny braces himself and walks inside. Someone else tries to follow him in, but Kenny shuts the door in their face and twists the lock before anyone else can get through.

“Hey!” he hears Butters holler. “That ain’t nice, some of us really gotta pee!”

Clyde’s sitting up against the wall, hugging his knees. His face isn’t as pale as it was in the classroom-- but it’s still got an ashen quality to it, and he wasn’t lying. It doesn’t look like he’s been crying at all. Kenny just sort of stands there awkwardly, unsure of what to do or say. He’s always been kind of shitty at comfort, better at just listening. But Clyde doesn’t seem inclined to say anything to him.

“C’mon,” Kenny says after a moment, “everyone knows Cartman’s an asshole. That’s why he has no friends.”

“I had no idea,” Clyde says quietly, “what it looked like. Now it won’t stop. Like, at all.”

“Yeah.” This is kind of eerie. No, it’s really eerie. Kenny finds himself wishing Clyde would just start bawling.

“I threw up in the urinal,” Clyde continues, “because I can’t even look at a toilet right now.”

“I’ll go get the nurse, okay?”

“No,” Clyde says. “You don’t get it. The nurse can’t help me. No one can.”

 _Oh, I do get it,_ Kenny thinks to himself. _Repeatedly. In a myriad of ways._ But he can’t exactly say that out loud, because nobody believes him anyway, and Clyde sure as Hell wouldn’t. So instead, he just pats Clyde on the shoulder. Clyde takes this as an opening to fling himself on Kenny, clutching at him for dear life.

And then the faucet’s finally on.

“I just wanna go home,” he sobs. Kenny’s not sure what else to do here so he just awkwardly pats Clyde on the back some more.

“It’s okay, kiddo,” he says. “You’ll be okay. You survived worse before. Remember?”

“ _No_ ,” Clyde snuffles loudly. There’s snot dripping from his nose. Kenny grabs a paper towel and offers it up, and Clyde just kind of slops it around. He’s pretty lucky that Kenny doesn’t get grossed out easily. Scooping up your own guts and shitting yourself to death will do that to a person-- though the latter was over eight years ago, thank you very much.

“Poor thing,” he says sympathetically. Clyde smells like salt and _Old Spice_. He’s actually sort of cute, though Kenny doesn’t know why the thought’s crossed his mind _now_ of all times. “Let’s just go to the nurse. Your dad can pick you up.”

“He won’t,” Clyde blubbers, though it’s clear he’s trying to get ahold of himself again. “He can’t leave work and-- it was _my fault_ anyway-- even though it _isn’t_ but she said it was and--” He dissolves into whimpers again, loudly blowing his nose and holding it out for Kenny to take. Kenny does this without a word, dropping it into the trash. “I hate that fat piece of shit, I’m gonna kick his ass, I hate him so _muuuuch_ \--!”

“We’ll all help you kick his ass,” Kenny offers. “Now let’s go, the nurse owes me a favour anyway. I’ll get you home.”

“Really?” Clyde scrubs a fist across his eyes. He’s still a little pudgy around the edges, and kind of reminds Kenny of a puppy, especially with those big sad brown eyes. “You’d do that for me?”

“Yeah, sure,” Kenny replies. “And then we can look at porn that doesn’t have Mrs. Cartman’s spread beaver on the front.”

“It wasn’t her beaver,” Clyde says as he gets up. “It was her ass. Not like that matters!”

“So you’re an ass man too?” Kenny asks cheerfully.

“Yeah!” Clyde visibly brightens at this. “Well, I mean, I’m all about the titties too, but…” They’re interrupted by a loud knock on the door.

“Hey, fags!” Cartman yells from the other side. “Some of us gotta take a dump with what’s left of our small intestines!” It’s a blatant reference to the story that he read earlier, and Clyde bursts into tears all over again.

 

* * *

 

They make a pit stop at Kenny’s first. Kenny insists that Clyde wait in his beat-up old truck, an inheritance from his father, because he’s not really in the mood to have people seeing the inside of his house. Especially not when his father’s home, which is all the time lately, because he’s fucking useless. 

Kenny’s father doesn’t even seem to give a shit that he’s suddenly and inexplicably at home in the late morning on a school day. “Get me some more bourbon, you little shit,” he calls half-heartedly when Kenny heads to his room to grab up some of his favourite DVDs. Kenny ignores him. Stuart goes back to sleep-- or whatever he was doing. Blacking out, perhaps.

“Here,” Kenny says when he climbs back into the truck, and tosses his backpack onto Clyde’s lap. “Pick which one you wanna watch first.”

“ _Wow_ ,” Clyde says, like a kid in a candy store. Kenny rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling, a little.

No one’s home at Clyde’s, because his dad is still at work--the fucking shoe store at the mall, Kenny remembers--and Clyde’s sister moved out three years ago to go to college. “Want anything to drink?” Clyde asks when they get inside. Kenny shakes his head. He’s not sure why he’s doing this, all things considered. Do guys watch porn together? Is that like, a thing? None of his friends have ever been into that. But Clyde’s still got Kenny’s backpack clasped tightly in his hands, and then they’re up in his bedroom, where he’s fortunate enough to have his own TV.

It’s awkward, though not as awkward as Kenny expected-- both of them are seated on the floor, backs to Clyde’s bed. Clyde’s enraptured by the whole damn thing, like they’re sucked into some kind of suspenseful movie, but Kenny finds himself more enraptured by the thick lump that’s developing in Clyde’s jeans, resting against his thigh.

“Hey,” he says, and Clyde blinks as if broken out of some kind of trance. Kenny half-wonders if he’d left him to his devices long enough, he would have just gotten further into it anyway, to the point of-- but Kenny’s curious, and pretty damn horny. “You can jerk to it if you want.”

He expects Clyde to freak out, but instead, he’s avoiding Kenny’s gaze. “Um,” he says, and then falters, like he’s trying to say something but can’t quite figure out how. “Um, uh.” He scratches his head. “I’m not-- you know.”

“Me either,” Kenny says, like it’s a promise. Clyde seems relieved by that.

“Well,” he says. “Are you gonna--?” He’s resting a hand on the waistband of his pants now, as if awaiting some kind of validation. Kenny bites back the urge to laugh.

“Let’s just do it at the same time.”

“Okay.” Clyde’s unbuttoning, and then unzipping, reaching inside to pull himself out. Kenny does the same. “Don’t look at mine,” Clyde says, though he isn’t actually looking to see if Kenny is or not. Of course, Kenny is.

It’s big.

Really big.

“Jesus fucking Christ, dude,” Kenny blurts out, fingers wrapped around himself. That’s when Clyde notices he’s staring after all, and he coughs as if embarrassed, but he’s grinning.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know, right?” Of course. Of course he’d be proud of his dick. Jesus Christ. If Kenny had a monster like that, he figures, he’d probably be damn proud of it too; no matter _who_ was looking at it.

Kenny’s never really been insecure about his dick, he uses it well and it’s above average-- truly above average, and not just by that weird equation they made up about the national average to keep those with anger problems in line. But looking at Clyde, he isn’t sure what he feels more: envy, or arousal. He is, as Clyde so eloquently put it earlier, “all about the titties.” Clyde can label it however he wants, because Kenny never holds any doubt when it comes to the power of lying by omission. Yet there’s something about feeling marginally inadequate when he’s used to feeling pride that makes his own dick perk up with more than mere curiosity, and he’s not sure _why_.

He tries to focus on the television screen. Some girl’s getting fucked in the ass by another girl with a strap-on, and she’s blowing a guy at the same time, her fingers plunged into her own pussy, thumb on her clit. Kenny’s tongue briefly brushes over his lower lip. He’s still aware of Clyde next to him, his breathing just a little more laboured, wrist moving slowly in Kenny’s peripheral vision.

But he’s not-- “you know”-- and neither is Kenny.

It’s not gay though, right? To relieve yourself while watching a girl get thoroughly violated? Just like it’s not gay to slip closer, casually, and place a hand on your buddy’s thigh while he’s slowly playing with himself. Or for him to not even jerk away at the gesture, but to do the same, like he’s not sure what else to do, but then it just happens like clockwork, both of them turning their faces to each other, and. . .

“Mmm.” Kenny bites softly at his lower lip, hand moving further up his thigh. Clyde seems to realize what he’d just did, then, and drops his head shamefully against Kenny’s shoulder. He’s kind of a bad kisser. Sloppy and unpracticed, it’s left Kenny’s lips wet. Then again, Kenny’s used to kissing girls anyway, so of course this would be different.

“What are we doing?” Clyde half-whimpers. “I’m not--”

“I’m not either,” Kenny says. _Did_ **_they_ ** _act like this, too?_ \-- is the thought that suddenly pops into his head. He snorts a little and shakes his head. Clyde notices.

“Don’t make fun of me!” he whines. Kenny pats him on the head.

“I wasn’t,” he reassures him. “It’s just a moment. You know?”

“Yeah,” Clyde says. “Just a moment.” Then he’s suddenly surging up against Kenny, pushing him back against the bed as he gives him more of those sloppy wet kisses, and it’s a moment before Kenny returns them, so baffled that he’s caught off-guard. Somewhere in all of this Clyde’s let go of his own dick, and gripped Kenny by the shoulders instead. There’s something untamed about it that doesn’t compare on the same wavelength with the way Kenny makes out with girls. Almost visceral, perhaps.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Kenny says for the second time when Clyde releases him. Clyde looks absolutely crushed.

“I should go,” he says, his voice wavering.

“We’re in your room, dude,” Kenny reminds him. This just makes Clyde whine louder and bury his face in his hands. _For the love of God,_ Kenny thinks to himself, _please don’t start fucking crying again._

But he’s not crying, just breathing hard, like he’s trying to collect himself. “I’m really horny,” he whines. “That’s all.” Kenny reaches over and gives that thick, hard dick an exploratory squeeze that’s meant to be reassuring, too, in a weird fucked-up way. Clyde drops his hands and stares at him.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a dick this fat before,” Kenny says brazenly, and he isn’t lying.

“Yeah,” Clyde says. “It’s really big. But yours is… prettier.”

 _Prettier._ What the _fuck_. “Don’t call my dick ‘pretty’,” Kenny remarks. It’s probably the weirdest compliment he’s ever gotten. Clyde reaches over to touch it, and Kenny lets him, curling his fingers around Clyde’s pride and joy. “Goddamn,” he remarks. “You’re a real handful.” He means it in all ways possible, though Clyde is probably too stupid to pick up on that.

“Keep telling me how big my dick is,” says Clyde, quirking an eyebrow, like he’s trying to be sexy about it. Kenny rolls his eyes.

“I’m just fascinated that anyone can actually take this thing.”

“Yup.” Clyde grins like an idiot. “Lots have.”

“Bebe Stevens always seemed like a size queen.”

“Annie too,” Clyde adds. “And Sally.” His hand’s still kind of resting against Kenny’s dick, not quite grabbing at him, sort of just cupped there like he has absolutely no clue what he’s supposed to do with it.

“Sally Darson?” Kenny drags his thumb down the underside of Clyde’s length, starting at the tip and pausing somewhere in the middle, because Clyde sits up straight, his eyes wide.

“Uh… uh-huh,” he says, briefly darting his tongue over his lips, like they’ve gone dry. “Wait,” he says abruptly, and pulls both his hands back, though he doesn’t quite shy away from Kenny’s touch. “What’re you doing?”

“Jerking you off,” Kenny replies, matter-of-factly. “Got a thing for blondes?”

“Y-yeah,” Clyde stammers. He looks terrified. Kenny hasn’t even started moving his hand yet.

“Tell me about Sally Darson’s pussy,” Kenny says.

“Oh man,” Clyde breathes out. “It’s like a slice of heaven. Sooo tight.” Kenny’s grip tightens, too, and he doesn’t fight him off this time. Nor does he when it starts to move. “Like warm silk wrapped around my dick.”

“You’re so eloquent,” Kenny remarks. “No wonder you’re in AP English.” Clyde laughs at that.

“Shut up,” he says. “She let me fuck her tits, too.”

“You’re just making this shit up,” Kenny quips. He rubs the pad of his thumb neatly over the head of Clyde’s dick and it makes him whine, hips giving a subtle jerk.

“No I’m _not_ ,” Clyde insists.

“Did Sally Darson make you wear a condom?” Clyde’s pretty damn hard in Kenny’s hand. So is Kenny, but he knows it’s not the conversation that’s making him this way, or even the pegging porn on his TV. He glances at it again, though. The girl who was fucking her counterpart with a strap-on is now pounding the dude in the ass, doggy-style, and he’s eating out the other girl. Kenny thinks again about Wendy. The girls in the film are blondes, though. Christ, is he ever sick of blondes.

“Yeah,” says Clyde. He’s staring raptly at the TV now. “That’s really gay,” he remarks.

“Those are chicks,” Kenny points out.

“It’s still gay,” Clyde insists. “If you like taking it up the ass then you’re gay. Look, see, he has his eyes closed. That means he’s picturing a dude.”

“And not because his face is buried in that girl’s snatch,” Kenny says with a laugh.

“Shut up,” Clyde says, a little more quietly. He’s breathing more heavily now, through his mouth. It’s cute, though, not in a weird ‘mouth-breather’ way like he associates with people like, say, Craig Tucker. Cute enough that Kenny’s actually contemplating leaning over again and sticking his tongue into that open mouth, but instead he just pulls his hand back from Clyde’s dick and spits in it.

And Clyde is still raptly focused on the TV, but his hands bunch into tight fists when Kenny curves his palm around the flushed head of his cock. He gasps when that grip slides down the length of him with more ease, the crude lubricant enough to entice Kenny to jerk on him faster.

“Wait!” he cries, suddenly. The guy who Clyde insisted was “really gay” for having a beautiful woman fuck him where the sun didn’t shine, he moans, and his dick twitches, and then there’s gobs of pearly come splattering over his thighs and onto the floor. It’s strangely palpable, and that’s probably because it made Clyde come too, but he’s not whining anymore. It’s a few breathy, rather masculine grunts as Kenny’s hand gets drenched with the stuff. It’s weird. The texture is weird. He has another boy’s semen in his hand, and he’s not sure how to process this.

“Got any tissues?”

“Uhhh… uh-huh…” Clyde sniffles a little and leans over, the crack of his very round ass poking out over the top of his pants as he does so, and then he passes the box to Kenny. Kenny is grateful to wipe up the mess. He doesn’t even like the taste of his own semen, no way is he gonna try another dude’s.

At least, not today.

His hand still smells like him. And Clyde’s adjusting himself, fastening his jeans. Apart from the few cursory touches he gave Kenny’s prick before, he does not seem inclined to take this any further. It’s likely for the better.

Awkward first time aside, Kenny knows what he is, what _she_ is. He knows that not everything operates in absolutes, and he knows there’s enough skeletons in that godforsaken closet of his. There simply just isn’t the room for housing the cliched terror of a fuckboy happening upon his own latent bisexuality, too. 

“Alright,” Kenny says when he’s tucked back into place. “I should get back, help my sister with her homework.”

“Yeah.” It’s punctuated with a yawn before Clyde shuts off the TV. “I’m gonna take a nap.” Kenny shoulders his backpack, but then pauses before reaching the threshold of Clyde’s bedroom door.

“Here,” he says while reaching back inside, “borrow these.” And they’re dropped onto Clyde’s bed, the DVDs. “I think you need ‘em a lot more than I do.”

“Holy shit,” Clyde says, snatching them up in his hands. “Fucking awesome. Thanks, man.”

Kenny has to bite back not only his laugh, but the urge to shake his head, too.

When he gets home, he walks past his snoring father on the couch--again--flops down onto his mattress, pulls out his phone, and scrolls down to the ‘W’s in his contact list.

 _So,_ he texts, _Palahniuk fan eh? ;)_

**Author's Note:**

> With Apologies to Chuck Palahniuk.
> 
> If anyone is curious about the actual story, yes, it exists, it's called "Guts" and it is _Scrotie McBoogerballs_ level of squick; possibly even worse. I warned you, and for the love of god, please don't actually take a breath and hold it in for the duration of the story, because you will faint.
> 
> Feel free to follow me on [Tumblr](http://metroph0bic.tumblr.com)!


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